


Lock It Up and Leave

by curds_and_wheyface



Category: Marvel Avengers Movies RPF, Thor (Movies) RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Military, M/M, Soldiers AU, Sorry about the lack of lube IDK, Spit As Lube
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-20
Updated: 2013-11-20
Packaged: 2018-01-02 03:06:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1051791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/curds_and_wheyface/pseuds/curds_and_wheyface
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Military AU in which Chris is a Lance Corporal stationed overseas who may or may not have a thing for his Lieutenant.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lock It Up and Leave

**Author's Note:**

  * For [townpariah](https://archiveofourown.org/users/townpariah/gifts).



> a.k.a the fic that started as a quick email to [townpariah](http://archiveofourown.org/users/townpariah/) (formerly rangerdanger) and ran away with itself.
> 
> Any mistakes are my own.

They've been out for five weeks and so far nobody has so much as lifted their weapon, let alone pulled the trigger. They spend their days training, complaining about the sand, eating and talking crap. It's not exactly what Chris expected when he volunteered to head out with a mixed platoon of British and American military, but he can't say he's upset about not being shot at.  
  
The sand really is a pain in the arse and it's too hot to be in their full armour all day, but he could do a lot worse for the pay he's on than sit around with a weapon in his hands, and the company isn't bad.  
  
Their Lieutenant is a British guy, well-spoken and serious, always standing with his hands behind his back and his chin up; nice enough but keeps his distance. Chris doesn't even remember seeing him smile since they landed, although he knows the guy's capable of one - he was treated to it the first time they met at the military airport in Germany.  
  
"Ridiculous, isn't it?" he'd said to Chris, lips spreading wide across his perfectly uniform teeth. "They must've flown you over Iraq to get you here and now they're flying you back."  
  
Chris had liked him immediately, his casual demeanour and his easy smile, but then they'd boarded the plane and apparently taken up their ranks because, well, Chris hadn't gotten a smile out of the guy in the time since.  
  
He's not too upset about it, he tells himself. He doesn't know Hiddleston's story or where he's been - not everybody is fresh out of training like Chris is and he's heard all about how war can change a man if he lets his guard down.  
  
Mostly the other guys are fine, they don't give him too much shit about being an Aussie, even though he always sides with Queen and Country whenever an argument breaks out about whether the UK is better than _the US of motherfuckin' A_. The Americans outnumber the Brits by five men even if you include Lieutenant Hiddleston, so Chris figures the little island needs all the help it can get.  
  
One guy Murray is an arsehole, though. Louisiana-born and an embarrassment to the place as far as Chris is concerned. He's harmless and stupid, an in-the-flesh version of that one guy in every war movie who gets somebody else killed. All he does is talk about 'Ali Q' as if al-Qaeda is one man, asking dumb questions while they shine their shoes or clean their weapons, sometimes even while they shower.  
  
"Davey," he'll usually say to Corporal Garrett Davison, a man with a ridiculous moustache and a hell of a scar on his chest that he won't tell anybody about so far. "If Ali Q stormed in here now and demanded you eat either a live frog or a mouldy sausage, which would you eat?"  
  
Early on, in the first few weeks, Davey would look over at Murray is if he was stupid and refuse to answer the question until the guy really bugged him about it. Now he just tips his head up from whatever he's doing and hums thoughtfully, answering with something like, "How mouldy is this sausage we're talking about?"  
  
Sometimes it even manages to get a little heated, with others joining in, arguing the pros and cons of one thing over another. "Man, a live frog, though? All those guts and shit?" or "Can a mouldy sausage kill you?" or "Is it a poisonous frog?"  
  
Usually Chris stays out of it, but today Murray has worn Davey down to his last nerve asking about whether he'd rather drown or burn to death, be lobotomised or castrated, whether he'd rather fuck a horse or his own brother, until eventually Davey looked up from his cleaning equipment and growled, "Son, you ask me one more question and I'll reassemble this motherfucker in record time and plug you between the eyes with it."  
  
Murray had lifted his hands and laughed nervously, high-pitched, before looking back down to his own disassembled weapon and going quiet for a good ten minutes.  
  
It doesn't last, though.  
  
"Hemsworth," he says instead after a while, leaning over a little, and Chris looks up in surprise because Murray hasn't ever bugged him with this crap before. "If Ali Q marched in here right now with a gun to your head and demanded you pick one of our dicks to suck..."  
  
Chris shifts his eyes over, trying not to react. Nobody here knows about him, as far as he knows, so it's probably just a coincidence, but still. 'Don't Ask, Don't Tell' might have been lifted, sure, but they still don't ask and he doesn't plan on telling.  
  
"Come on, man," Murray snaps his fingers. "It's blow or die."  
  
Chris huffs, trying to sound casual. He's obviously going to take the bullet, it's the only option here he won't get judged for. "Well I'd obviousl-"  
  
"Wait!" Murray snaps, opening up his palm toward Chris' face and shaking his head. "No, I know your type. Big damn hero, right? You're gonna pick die...so what about if he was gonna shoot somebody else in the head, huh?"  
  
At that Chris smiles without humour. "Depends on who it was."  
  
"Asshole, answer the question."  
  
He ponders it, trying to decide between refusing to play this game, choosing a random name or actually telling the truth. He realises that he's got an audience, Davey and a couple of the others looking over with raised brows, and suddenly Chris worries that too much thought might raise as much suspicion as an all-out-refusal to answer.  
  
"Hiddleston," he says in his panic, almost by accident, and it's such a horribly honest answer that he has to really fight a blush.  
  
Murray blinks, looking around at the others with a slowly forming smile. "Well I knew you were a kiss-ass, Hemsworth, but even I didn't see that coming."  
  
"Oh, fuck you," Chris flips him off, shuffling in his chair a little to present Murray with his shoulder. He should've just refused to answer.  
  
"Come on, you have to elaborate a little," Murray carries on, grinning like a fool. "Why Hiddleston? Is it his accent or his rank?"  
  
Chris shrugs loosely, hoping to defuse the conversation with a reasonable answer. "He just seems the cleanest, I guess."  
  
Davey points, nodding, "The man actually speaks a lot of sense, the Lieutenant is immaculate. I wouldn't put my mouth on any of your dirty dicks but I might consider Hiddleston's pristine prick."  
  
He couples the statement with a crude gesture which makes the others laugh and Chris knows it's not at his expense but he feels embarrassed all the same, hunching further over his equipment and going back to cleaning.  
  
There's a relative silence for a blissful minute and then Murray says, "Really Hiddleston, huh?"  
  
"I mean," Chris huffs, "what is this? What's this line of questioning about?"  
  
Davey chuckles from the corner. "He was hoping you'd say him." He pulls a face, putting on a Southern accent much stronger than Murray's and saying, "You got a purdy mouth, Hemmy."  
  
"As if!" Murray murmurs, shoving at Chris even though it was Davey who said it. "You're the one who said you'd suck a dick."  
  
And that's the last straw for Chris because he suddenly snaps, twisting back around. "Because you asked! I didn't just spontaneously announce my desire to suck Hiddleston's cock."  
  
Murray rears back like he's scared and for a second Chris feels a bit impressed with himself, until he realises that Murray isn't looking at him.  
  
He's looking behind him.  
  
"Well I'm certainly flattered," says a clipped British voice from the doorway, and it's like a splash of ice water down Chris' spine. He slowly turns to look over his shoulder and, sure enough, there's Lieutenant Hiddleston in the doorway, hands clasped behind his back.  
  
"Sir, I didn't-" he tries to say, various apologies fighting their way up his throat, but Hiddleston lifts a steady hand to stop him.  
  
"No explanation necessary," he says, shrugging neatly, and even though Chris feels like an explanation is incredibly necessary he doesn't argue. "I just came to tell you all that we've had word of an American marine convoy due to pass in two days. They'll be heading East and they want some extra wheels for fifty miles. I expect the vehicles to be in perfect condition by the time they arrive."

A series of 'yessirs' ring out around the tent, and Chris tries to catch the Lieutenant's eye when he nods but Hiddleston glances right over him.  
  
When he leaves somebody behind Davey laughs and tries to mask it with a cough, but nobody else seems to find it very funny.  
  
"Would you go for the deep throat or what?" Murray whispers in the silence that follows, and Chris punches him so hard in the arm that he drops his gun.  
  
 -  
  
Hiddleston looks at him differently afterwards. Chris tried to tell himself at first that he was imagining it but he's not the only one who's noticed and it's kind of hard to shrug off when Hiddleston doesn't even afford him a 'thank you' as Chris divvies out the letters from home.  
  
Chris' letters are always from his mum. The last letter had a photograph of Luke cuddling his wife,  hand over her rounded, pregnant tummy, both of them wearing happy smiles, and a picture of Liam looking grumpy and a bit drunk.  
  
He misses home when he gets his letters, so badly that he doesn't always open them right away, saving them instead for when he can flick his torch on under the blanket and try to decipher the blurry words through tears.  
  
Hiddleston reads all of his letters in private too, Chris has noticed, and always with a quiet calm. He sits alone some way from everyone else in the camp and leans low over the paper.  
  
The others read theirs out loud, especially the raunchy ones from wives or girlfriends, but the Lieutenant keeps his to himself. He always looks a mixture of sad and happy while he reads them but Chris has never seen him cry.  
  
He wonders if Hiddleston has a wife, a kid maybe, but he suspects he'll never find out.  
  
 -  
  
He does though, eventually.  
  
They're heading home for three whole weeks, to see their families and to enjoy a warm shower for a change, but first they have to go, of course, to Germany.  
  
The Americans are all flying out pretty much immediately to JFK before then going their separate ways, but Chris' flight back to Aus won't pick him up until the next afternoon and it turns out that the Brits are all stuck at the base overnight too.  
  
Chris pretty much throws his duffel onto the bed he's been given and heads straight for the shower, tipping his head back beneath the hot spray and relaxing his shoulders for what feels like the first time in months. Afterwards he dries quickly and throws on the clothes nearest to the top of his duffel before heading out to the pub he saw on his way to the barracks.  
  
It's full of army personnel in various states of uniform or drunkenness, and Chris settles himself by the bar.  
  
The barman is distractedly talking to somebody else so Chris sits patiently, following the grains in the bar with his fingers and enjoying the low drone of conversations around him.  
  
"What'll it be?" the guy eventually says in a thick German accent, sounding bored and tired even though it's only five pm.  
  
"Beer please, mate," Chris says vaguely. "Pint of whatever's on draught."  
  
He's reaching for his wallet when, from behind him, Lieutenant Hiddleston says, "Make that two."  
  
He sits himself down on the other barstool and slides some money over before Chris can protest, and then they're left just looking at each other while the barman slips away to fill their glasses.  
  
"Thanks Lieutenant," Chris says out of habit, and Hiddleston smiles tightly, looking back to the barman while he shaves the head off their pint glasses.  
  
"You must think I'm a real arse," Hiddleston stuns him by saying, and for a moment Chris can't think of a thing to say.

He manages to breath out, "I don't think that," and hopes that Hiddleston can tell that it's the truth.  
  
Hiddleston shrugs. "Keeping to myself, not joining in with the camaraderie. I think it myself sometimes, but war isn't really the best setting for making friends."  
  
"I suppose not," Chris says, wrapping his fingers around the warm beer glass for something to do.  
  
"Of course," Hiddleston sighs, "I didn't anticipate that it'd be so...boring."

His mouth curls softly into a half smile when he says that, and he rubs a hand down his face before reaching out to lift his beer.

Chris smiles too, finally taking his first, glorious mouthful of beer in five months and not even caring that it's flat. He lets out a pleased sigh as he sets the glass back down and Hiddleston's smile widens in amusement.

"Good?"

Chris nods, smacking his lips and then immediately wishing he hadn't. "I've missed that."

There's a fairly companionable silence threatening to fall over them but Chris still feels like there's something to be said.

"Lieutenant," he starts, trying to work out how to apologise for what happened at camp all those weeks ago, but Hiddleston seems to anticipate it and waves him off before he can continue.

"You can call me Tom," he says. "Please."  
  
And Chris nods, lifting his beer again.  
  
-

They drink for hours, unrushed, and conversation flows surprisingly easy between them. Tom, it turns out, has two sisters and a slightly overbearing mother but no wife, and certainly no children. He owns a house in the English countryside which he rents out, so when he says he's 'going home' he really means that he's going to his sister Sarah's house and the spare bedroom she lets him keep his things in.  
  
He only lets Chris pay for every third drink they have, which Chris only argues until Tom points out, without malice, that his paycheque is somewhat larger than Chris' is.  
  
Eventually Tom complains of hunger, ordering what seems like enough food for four people from the barman and finding them an empty booth against the back wall so they don't have to eat at the bar.  
  
They eat cheerfully, sharing plates and knocking hands when they reach for the same thing. Tom puts too much ketchup on everything and Chris lets him, especially because in the process of putting the bottle back he slides closer until their thighs are pressed together and doesn't move away.

When the barman takes their plates they order more beers and Tom swears it'll be absolutely the last one.  
  
"My flight is at seven." Tom pulls a face, looking at his watch. "My first day back on European soil and they couldn't even afford me a lie-in."  
  
The barman deposits their drinks on the table between them and Chris watches with interest as Tom uses his finger to scoop up some of the foamy head. He lets his eyes follow the digit as Tom lifts it to his mouth and sucks it clean, and when he looks back up to Tom's eyes he finds that he too is being watched.

Tom leans close, his eyes bright even though he's not smiling. "Are you gay, Chris?" he asks, and his tone is full of curiosity without a hint of judgement.

"Yes," Chris breathes, and then Tom does smile.  
  
-  
  
They end up back in Tom's room, which looks exactly like Chris' except with a view of the supplies shed rather than the training yard, and Tom presses Chris up against the door the moment it shuts.  
  
"How old are you, Chris?" he asks, nipping at Chris' jaw line. Chris wishes he'd taken the time to shave before heading out to the pub, but Tom doesn't seem to mind.  
  
Chris groans, letting his head thunk back against the cheap door. "Uh, twenty four," he croaks. "God, Tom-"  
  
"I'm thirty one," Tom breathes, slipping a hand down to rub at the crotch of Chris' jeans quite casually. "I thought you were older."  
  
Chris blinks down at him, managing a nod. He's heard that before, though never while having his hardening cock groped.  
  
He reaches out, slipping his fingers into Tom's hair, angling his head until they're eye to eye again, and then he leans down to lick at Tom's parted lips. Tom shudders, breathing out a wobbly breath, and then he slowly closes the distance between them.  
  
They kiss with a slow-burning intensity, Tom's tongue playing against his own in a way that has Chris' cock stiffening the rest of the way. He hums out his pleasure into the kiss and feels Tom smile against his mouth.  
  
"You're clean, right?" he says as he pulls away, his lips plump and red from their kisses, and Chris nods vehemently, digging his fingers into the material at Tom's waist.  
  
"Good," Tom says.  
  
He moves back slowly, pulling Chris by the lapel of his jacket until they're in the middle of the small room. "Take this off," he orders, beginning to unbutton his own shirt. Chris does as he's told, shrugging off the jacket, and then Tom places a warm hand against his stomach and moves it up the planes of Chris' abdomen and chest, letting the material gather at his wrist as he goes. "This too," he murmurs.  
  
While Chris is busy with his arms over his head Tom crowds in close, fingers moving against Chris' bulge as he works at the button and zipper of his jeans, mouthing at his newly-bared chest. He shoves Chris' jeans down to mid-thigh then starts on his own, kicking them all the way off and ridding himself of his underwear immediately after. His cock is standing to attention, pink at the tip, and Chris thinks back to the question Murray asked him at the barracks and commends his own choice.  
  
He bends to shove his jeans off completely, slipping his thumbs into the waistband of his boxers. Lifting his eyes he finds Tom chewing at his bottom lip and waiting intently for Chris to bare himself too.  
  
He's so hard he thinks he might cry if he doesn't get Tom's hand on him soon, but Tom does one better, walking him backwards a step until his knees hit the bed and he's forced to sit down.  
  
He slides to his knees between Chris' thighs and licks at his own hand, flattening his tongue along the palm and leaving behind a slick path. Chris' cock visibly twitches at the promise, and when Tom takes him in hand he has to fight his own instinct to lift his hips into the warmth of Tom's hand.  
  
"Remember what you said that day in camp?" Tom says quietly, watching Chris' face.  
  
Chris feels himself blush at the memory, which is ridiculous considering the position he's in now, and nods. "Yes," he breathes, shaking his head. "Sorry."  
  
"Don't be sorry," Tom strokes him from base to tip and back again, tightening his fist on the down stroke and Chris really can't stop himself from thrusting upwards into it. "I kept thinking about it afterwards, having you on your knees for me."  
  
Chris whimpers, clenching his fists and pressing them up against his eyes.  
  
"And then I started to think about this," Tom continues, his voice low. Without warning he dips his head, using his fist to angle Chris' cock up towards his mouth and pressing an open kiss to the underside. Chris opens his eyes to watch, mesmerised by Tom's tongue, light pink against the rouged up tip of his cock, swirling and lapping, dipping into the sensitive slit.  
  
"Tom, _please_ ," he begs, tilting his hips up in the hope that Tom will take pity on him and take him into his mouth.  
  
Instead Tom presses Chris' thighs further apart and nuzzles down, his mouth sucking kisses along the underside of Chris' cock until he reaches his balls, sucking eagerly, using one hand to lift and tug Chris' sac to his lips and the other to stroke, spit-wet, up and down the shaft. All the while he maintains eye contact as best he can.  
  
It's the dirtiest experience of Chris's life and the last thing he expected from his stoic Lieutenant.  
  
"I've got no lube." Tom suddenly says, sitting back on his heels. "I'll get you wet enough with my mouth and then you can fuck me."  
  
"Oh-okay, yeah," Chris stutters out, white knuckled from gripping at the starchy bed sheets as Tom laves his tongue around the crown of Chris' cock before taking him all the way into his mouth. Bobbing his head, hollowing his cheeks and sinking deeper than Chris expected, Tom hums contentedly and the sound vibrates down to Chris' toes.  
  
It's incredible, the wet heat of it, and Chris opens his mouth around a moan.  
  
Tom is all but drooling down his own chin in his effort to get Chris good and wet, and Chris nearly chokes on his next breath as Tom slips one long-fingered hand up, pressing two digits against Chris' mouth until he parts his lips.  
  
He gets the picture, groaning as he sucks with equal enthusiasm around Tom's fingers, tasting the salt of his skin and the distant tang of beer.  
  
Tom lets Chris' dick slip from between his lips and kneels up, hooking his now-wet fingertips behind Chris' front teeth and using them to pull their mouths together.  
  
They kiss long and dirty, Chris tasting himself whenever he presses his tongue into Tom's hot mouth, and Tom lifts one knee and reaches behind himself.  
  
Chris tries to pull away from the kiss, keen to watch as Tom works himself open, but Tom just uses his other hand to pull him back in again.  
  
The kiss turns even more desperate as Tom fingers himself open, teeth clanging together and biting at lips, the fingers of Tom's other hand clawing into the meat of Chris' shoulder.  
  
Eventually he's just breathing hot, desperate air against Chris' mouth, lips red and parted, his gaze intermittently losing focus.  
  
"Feels good?" Chris whispers, knowing the answer already, and then he's tugging Tom up, slipping one hand around to tug at his wrist until his fingers slip from inside himself.  
  
Between them they manage to get Tom up onto his lap and Chris finds Tom's slick opening with his fingers and presses inside just to the first knuckle.  
  
"No," Tom gasps, "come on, just fuck me."  
  
He spits crudely into his hand and reaches back to grab at Chris' cock with it, slicking him with a quick stroke before guiding him, and Chris helpfully spreads Tom's cheeks until he's exposed. He feels the bump and drag of his cockhead against Tom's puckered hole and then Tom bears down, grunting and gripping at Chris' shoulder.  
  
It's tight and there's not enough slick but Tom lifts up and lowers himself again, pinching his eyes shut and hissing in a breath through his teeth.  
  
"Okay?" Chris grasps at his hips to slow him, squeezing until his thumbs dig in above the bone and Tom hums, dropping his head forward onto Chris' shoulder.  
  
When he tries to lift his hips again Chris holds him still, tipping his head to nuzzle and mouth at Tom's long neck. Tom huffs out a short laugh, shaking his head.  
  
"Come on," he says again, rocking his hips forward and making Chris groan. "I can take it."  
  
So Chris loosens his hold gradually, allowing Tom to raise up again and rock back down, and fastens his mouth to the muscle where neck meets shoulder, letting his teeth scrape along the skin. Tom's breath hitches with that, his hips stuttering down with more force.  
  
He feels so hot inside that Chris can barely stand it, the friction almost too much every time he moves. Using his hands to still Tom once again, Chris leans back until his shoulder blades are against the cold wall. Tom stares down at him curiously, blinking his eyes fully open, and then Chris is lifting Tom's hips and using the wall for leverage as he thrusts upwards.  
  
He's immediately gratified by Tom's sob.  
  
He fucks up into him again with equal energy, his grip on Tom's hips probably harder than it needs to be, but the thought of Tom arriving home on the opposite side of the world with evidence of Chris bruised into his skin makes him crazy, makes him snap his hips up with more force.  
  
With his eyes squeezed shut he hears Tom's hands slap down against the wall either side of his head, and then there's hot, beer-sweet breath against his mouth and chin.  
  
"That's it," Tom mutters, keening between the words. "Deep like that, _yes_ , you feel so good."  
  
Then Tom is biting at his mouth, sucking at his bottom lip even though Chris can't unclench his teeth, can't help shaking from the power he's putting into his thrusts.  
  
He opens his eyes slightly when Tom leans back again and cries out, finding the right angle for Chris to hit him in the right spot. His cock bounces, red and leaking, with each of Chris' thrusts and then he reaches for himself.  
  
He groans, beginning to tug at his own cock with the rhythm of Chris' thrusts, twisting his fist a little at the tip, something he seems to like which Chris makes a note of for a later date. He watches Tom's expressive face, so twisted in pleasure that it'd be impossible to tell apart from agony, and he feels his own orgasm coming. His thighs are aching by the time Tom finally spills over his own fist, his breaths coming harsh and fast.  
  
It doesn't take Chris long to follow, rocking up once, twice into the heat of Tom's clenching hole, holding him down tightly as he comes deep inside. Tom's breath shakes out of him, his hands coming down to loosen Chris' hold on his hips even as Chris continues to rock lazily.  
  
Once he's still Tom clambers off him with little grace, awkward and equally exhausted, and slowly shuffles into the attached bathroom, tossing out a wad of tissue before closing the door behind him. Chris wipes himself clean, listening intently to the sound of the tap running and Tom moving around.  
  
He's in there for long enough that Chris pulls himself to the top of the bed and lays his head against the pillow, letting his eyes slip shut while he waits.  
  
Tom all but falls back onto the bed, jostling Chris as he rolls onto his back and lets out a slow breath.  
  
"Well, that was something," he says vaguely, closing his eyes, and Chris decides not to take it the wrong way.  
  
"I'm staying here," he mumbles, reaching out to sink his fingers into Tom's thigh. "Okay?"  
  
Tom doesn't open his eyes but he does nod, patting at the back of Chris' hand before turning his face away. Chris waits, thinking maybe there's something else to be said, but Tom is quiet except for his slowing breath.  
  
-  
  
When Chris wakes up Tom is at the foot of the bed shuffling into his clothes. A quick glance at the clock says that it's just after 6am, about an hour until the flight back to England.  
  
He clears his throat and Tom jumps a little, looking guilty.  
  
"I'm not sneaking off," he says, probably trying to convince himself more than Chris. "I just didn't want to wake you up."  
  
Chris shrugs as if he doesn't care either way and settles back to unabashedly watch Tom dress, admiring the lines and subtle curves of his body. All too soon he's fully dressed, standing by the door with his pack on his shoulder and his coat over his arm.  
  
"See you in three weeks, Lance Corporal," he murmurs, and Chris is surprised by how much the formality stings.  
  
"So we're back to that?" He asks.  
  
Tom sighs. "Maybe. I don't know."  
  
They stare at each other for some time, Tom hovering in the doorway and Chris watching him from the bed. He's ready to give in and roll over for some more sleep when Tom lets the duffel slip from his shoulder and drop to the ground.  
  
He slips to his knees beside the bed and presses a kiss to Chris' morning-sour mouth, deep and searching, all tongue and teeth, one hand at the back of Chris' head to hold him in place.  
  
By the time they part Chris' chest is burning for oxygen, his fingers itching to find their way back underneath Tom's clothes, but as he catches his breath Tom is already on his feet and tugging his duffel in place over his shoulder again.  
  
"War isn't really the best setting for making friends," he says quietly, and as the door slips closed behind him Chris can't help but smile at the lack of conviction in his tone.  
  



End file.
